


Promises Kept & Made

by The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: & they bloody well love it, 10/10 rave reviews, Disney World & Disneyland, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Honeymoon, M/M, Making Out, Post-Canon, also smooches, banter & bad vampire jokes basically, but like it's subtle i didn't have enough words to e x p l a i n, it's a good time i think, just hint., simon also makes an obnoxious amount of bad vampire jokes, simon has dragon magic, that's right I sent them to Disneyland Paris to be kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25490077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/pseuds/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff
Summary: Simon & Baz honeymoon in Paris & have the fun they didn't get to have as kids.Originally written for the Golden Days Zine.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 53
Kudos: 212
Collections: Golden Days: a Simon Snow Series zine





	Promises Kept & Made

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! 
> 
> Earlier this year I had the honor to write a fic for the Golden Days Zine. I'm thrilled to be able to share it with you now! 
> 
> This one was a joy to write (after some initial hurdles). I hope you like it. <3

**BAZ**

It’s warm and comforting, waking up in a strange place. In Simon’s arms. _My_ Simon, our bare legs tangled together, our bodies touching from ankle to chest. Warm. _Home._

He pulls me in closer when he feels me starting to stir, his voice hoarse when he whispers, “Good morning, darling,” into my hair. I’d swoon if I weren’t already lying down. (I’m swooning anyway.) I feel his belly flex as he stretches out his legs and then hitches one up and over mine.

He pulls his head back, his curls rustling against his pillow. (It’s a rather comfortable bed, as hotels go.) I pull my head back, too, and he’s looking at me, eyes hooded and blue and smiling. “Ready for a day full of _fun,_ Mr. Pitch?” He’s stroking my hair from my face as he rasps at me, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.

“I suppose that depends on what’s on offer—”

He cuts me off by rolling on top of me, pinning me to the mattress. “Say it,” he says.

“Say _what._ ”

“Say it _back._ ”

“I don’t know _what_ you’re referring to, Snow—”

He manages to pin me harder, if that’s possible. I could throw him off in an instant, and we both know it. But there’s still something about _this…_

“Yes, you do—”

I cut him off with my mouth, and when I let go he grins crookedly and says, “ _Say it_ ,” again.

I roll my eyes at him. I’m about to spend a lifetime—or, well...whatever it is I’ve got—rolling my eyes at him. It’s a wonder they’ve not rolled from my skull already.

“You’re insufferable,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “ _Mr. Pitch._ ”

“You married me,” he says, as if I actually need reminding.

And then he kisses me.

**SIMON**

We’re at bloody Disneyland Paris.

We’re at _Disneyland._ We’re _married._ I’m a _Pitch…_

Not _legally,_ yet. I’ve got things to sort once we’re back from our honeymoon. But Merlin, if fifteen-year-old me could see me now. I wonder if he’d be surprised, or if it’d feel like all the pieces of the puzzle were finally fitting together. Like everything finally made _sense._

I’m a _Pitch._ Magickally, I’m all his. My heart’s all his.

My heart’s been his all along.

Sometimes I can’t believe we’ve made it here.

Not Disneyland, though I guess that’s a bit strange, too. Just. Us _. This._ We’ve _made it._ We _are_ making it.

We’re endgame.

It was our therapist’s idea for us to come here. (I’m not sure if it’s weird to have your therapist pick where you go on your honeymoon, but I try not to think in terms of what’s right for anyone else anymore.) She said she thought it’d be good for us. Something about never having the childhoods we should’ve done, having fun. All that.

I almost couldn’t believe that Baz agreed, but then I thought of us in America, at that festival. How we had _fun…_

So we’re kicking off the honeymoon here, then venturing off into Paris. (Baz made some sort of joke about how they’ve got Catacombs here. “ _Surely you’ll want to explore them, Snow_?” I told him I’d like to explore _him,_ which stopped him talking, in any case.) Then to Rome. (This trip’s probably costing a fortune, but Daphne and Malcolm insisted on paying for it as a wedding gift, and I’m trying not to think about it.)

I’m not sure anything could top this, honestly. This place is wicked. They’ve got these little churros and shops full of all sorts of fudge. The whole place looks like we’ve stepped into some sort of fairytale, only a lot less dangerous than the sort we’ve got in our world. (Like, I’ve not seen any actual fairies. No one wearing cobwebs or strings of human teeth…)

There’s just something magical about this place, isn’t there? Not _magickal._ But not Normal, either…

Baz is stood there in a floral shirt and fitted jeans and sunglasses as big as his face, and I want to kiss him here. I want to take his hand and pull him through the crowd.

I do.

**BAZ**

Snow keeps poking fun at my shirt, which I’m fairly sure means he likes it.

He _should_ like it; he’s the reason I bought it. Deep blue with big yellow sunflowers. It reminded me of him.

Simon Snow is still the sun. Simon _Grimm-Pitch_ is still the sun, but my days of thinking he’ll burn me are finally over. What’s like the sun rendered soft?

“ _Your shirt’s well bright,_ ” he said while we waited in the queue for the train. (It isn’t a train. It’s a bloody death trap shaped like a train, and Simon just about laughed his arse off while I screamed. I’m still trying to find my dignity.)

“D’you think you’re blinding people with all those sunflowers? Is that why your sunglasses are so big?” he asks now. We’re stood by some man-made lake trying to decide which horrors we’re headed to next.

I look at the park map on my mobile instead of at him. “For the last time, Simon Snow—”

“What’s that? What’d you call me?”

I can’t believe I married this delectable moron.

I wait until I’m looking at him to roll my eyes. “For the last _time_ , Simon bloody Grimm bloody _Pitch_ , I wore it because it’s _perfect_.”

“Are there really so many _bloodys_ in our name? Did I miss that? That’s well ironic, considering—”

“How many vampire jokes are you planning on making today? This _trip_?” There were fake bats at the start of that infernal train ride. He asked me how many were my mates.

“Dunno. Depends on how vampiric you plan to be, I s’pose.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You married me. What’s that make you?”

“A lovesick fool.” I start walking, and he follows, snaking an arm around my waist and pressing a quick kiss just above my collar. It makes me shiver even though it’s summertime. Ten bloody years together and I’m still such a cliché...

He points at something up ahead. “How ‘bout that? Whatsit?”

I glance back down at my mobile and search for the miniature version of the house on the hill. “Phantom Manor. It’s a haunted mansion.”

He squeezes with the arm that’s still wrapped around me and knocks my hip with his. I’m surprised at the sheer amount of coordination he’s just achieved. “No wraiths, I’d bet,” he says.

I slip my mobile into my back pocket. “Who knows, Snow. Surely you’re not the authority on wraith habitats? Perhaps this is just the sort of environment they’d prefer.”

“Good thing I’ve got you around, then, innit? They’ll stay clear away from you, well fierce vampire that you are.”

**SIMON**

Baz keeps talking in French even though it seems like everyone who works here speaks English. Probably just to show off, the wanker. (Or maybe he’s just being polite.) (It’s more than a bit hot, in any case. I sort of want him to drag me into a corner and push me against a wall and _talk French to me._ )

Also all the spells he’s used since we got here are French; says he learned a thing or two from when we went to America and never wants to be so humiliated ever again. He started reading up on French idioms as soon as we booked the trip.

Earlier, before we rode that wicked roller coaster, he bought us some of those little churros. I swear to Merlin the bloke who served them was flirting, but then Baz told me he was only saying _congratulations_. Maybe so, but I know what it looks like when people look at Baz...like _that._ (People are _always_ looking at Baz like that. _I’m_ always looking at Baz like that.)

Doesn’t matter in any case. He’s mine. Gave me his name and everything.

Anyway, he looks lovely just now, so I can’t really blame anyone for looking, can I? His hair’s pulled back in a messy knot at the back of his head. Plus the clouds’ve come out, so he’s propped his sunglasses up like a crown (they're almost big enough to _be_ a crown). I’d like to thank the clouds, almost, because I can see his eyes this way. Which probably means I’m just a romantic sod.

I slip my hand into his as we walk into the haunted house. The sun’s been warming his skin, but he's still a bit cool to touch. (I’m going to warm him back up.)

I lean in. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “I’ll protect you.”

He levels me with a look and a raised eyebrow.

I take a look around. Everything’s decorated so _cool_ here. Really draws you in, puts you in the moment. Puts you in the _feeling._

I squeeze Baz’s hand. “Now _this_ is a gothic mansion—”

“Still Victorian,” he quips. Doesn’t even miss a beat.

**BAZ**

Simon hasn’t let go of my hand since we entered the queue.

It takes me back to those awful months—after the Mage (may he rest in pain) and before America. How I thought I was losing him—that I _would_ lose him, inevitably. How I was afraid to touch him, like touching him would be the final feather that tipped the scale…

And everything that happened _after._

How we found our way, how we stumbled through, how we finally came together again, all our broken pieces aligning and mending and healing.

It wasn’t always easy. But the way he’s holding my hand now…

He’s making it feel like it’s easy.

I squeeze his hand as we’re ushered into a striped, octagonal room with what feels like the rest of bloody humanity. (Somehow all these people are managing to smell like amusement park snacks…)

Simon knocks my shoulder with his then uses his free hand to point at the candelabras lining the wall. “Probably feel right at home here, yeah?”

All the candelabras are shaped like gargoyles.

I’m about to chastise him, or get the last word in, but a voice is saying “ _Our tour begins here…,_ ” and we’ve been closed in, and Simon’s ears are practically perking up. I don’t want him to miss this, whatever it is.

I roll my eyes instead and hope my point comes across. Then I move behind him and set my hands on each of his broad shoulders. He leans back against me, and I smile without meaning to.

“Look,” Simon says, gesturing at one of the four portraits on the wall. “They’re changing.”

They _are_ changing. Every portrait had the same woman in it at first, with a different man in each. Now she’s faded away to an eerie, music box-esque tune that sets gooseflesh rising on my neck.

“I’m not blind,” I whisper into Simon’s curls (I think his hackles might be raised a bit, too). He kicks an elbow back into my stomach.

Which is when the portraits start to stretch.

“ _Perhaps you sense a disquieting metamorphosis..._ ” the voice says. (I repeat the phrase in Simon's ear—in French this time, along with the narration—and he leans into me further. I could swear he shivers.)

Then Simon says, “Well this is a bit morbid, innit?”

The portraits have stretched enough to reveal clearly, well... _morbid_ impending deaths for their subjects.

Simon's got his head tilted back so far, I can see his nose poking out from behind his curls. " _Wicked,_ " he whispers, and I squeeze his shoulders.

Something's about to happen. I can sense the anticipation pouring off a good portion of the people in this room, like they already know what’s to come. A jump scare, maybe…

That's when the lightning strikes up above us, and people _scream_ , and I zap Simon in the sides with my hands.

He jumps and releases a yell that carries over everyone else's. I catch him around his waist and press my face into his neck, laughing. He squirms in my arms and tries to slap one of my hands away.

" _Wanker._ "

I just smile against his skin and breathe the scent of him: cheap soap (I've not been able to break _that_ habit) and cinnamon-sugar, sweat and brown butter blood. _Home._

" _You're such an arse,_ " he says as the people around us start to crowd towards a now-open door.

"You earned that one."

* * *

The ride is set in the dark, which I'm sure adds to the appeal for everyone else. Bloody vampire vision has its cons, I suppose.

It's still enjoyable, despite the diminished effects. We're sat together by ourselves, shielded from everyone else's sight. Simon's got his hand on my thigh, and he keeps marvelling about how the Normals _seem to get by_ with this sort of entertainment.

" _It almost looks like magic._ "

" _No_ —”

" _Easy for you to say. If I'd've seen something like this as a kid instead of real magic, I wouldn't've known the difference._ "

I didn't have anything to say to that, so I set my hand on top of the one he'd perched on my thigh.

It's still there. I can feel the warmth of his palm seeping through my jeans.

Simon leans in to me when we pass the figure of the bride weeping and singing morosely in front of her vanity. (So far I’ve gathered that her father murdered _all_ of her intendeds, and she’s been wandering the house looking for her lost love for at least the last hundred years. Normals really _do_ have a shit-tinted view of the world.)

“At least we’ve not ended up in _nuptial doom,_ y’know,” he whispers. “That’s what the floating head in the crystal ball said, innit?”

I lean in to him, too. “Not so fast, Snow. My father could still change his mind about you—”

“Your dad _loves_ me.”

Well. I can’t argue with him there.

**SIMON**

The atmosphere changes almost as soon as Baz insinuates that his dad might be out to get me.

I mean, it’s not what he’s said. Just a coincidence. But the ride’s moving us into a graveyard, and there’s fake wind whistling and an evil laugh carrying over the air, and I’d be lying if I said the hairs on the back of my neck haven’t stood up.

I move in closer to Baz without meaning to.

Turns out the laugh’s coming from a skeleton wearing a top hat, which sort of takes away the creepy factor. He’s also wearing a big Dracula cape, and I just—

“Did you let him borrow that?” I ask Baz.

He looks at me like he’s made the biggest mistake of his life, marrying me. “Are you _actually_ trying for an annulment?” he asks.

“Sorry, love,” I say. “I should’ve realized your tolerance for vampire jokes’d be capped at fashion.”

“My tolerance for vampire jokes is capped, full stop.”

I’m not sure if he’s _actually_ annoyed, or just flirting. (It’s hard to tell sometimes, even after all these years, but I’d say it’s flirting at _least_ fifty percent of the time. More, probably. Annoyed _and_ flirting, maybe.)

I try to change the subject by pointing at the next thing: a growling animatronic dog (wolf?) that looks like it’s seen a whole slew of better days. “ _That_ looks even nastier than the merwolves—”

“ _Nothing_ is nastier than the merwolves, Snow. Merciful Morgana, have you lost your mind?”

I laugh and squeeze his thigh and bump his knee with mine.

Still bitter about the merwolves, then. I’d wondered.

**BAZ**

It's a bit of work to pay attention to the ride with Simon leaning against me. With him _touching_ me. We've only just started our honeymoon, but I already feel like we've cast some sort of spell over this trip. It's making me giddy, and stupid, and like I never want him to stop touching me. Like everything is _new_ again. Even with all the ridiculous vampire jokes.

Maybe the magic cast during the ceremony hasn't worn off yet. Or maybe I really am just a cliché.

We're still riding through the graveyard (we must be coming to the end, surely).

There’s an animatronic skeleton fiddling with the lid of a coffin (holding yet another skeleton) up ahead. Simon nudges me in the shoulder and points. “Should we take that home for you to sleep in?” The bastard.

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_ —”

That’s when we jolt forward as the ride comes to an unexpected halt.

“Bloody well wonderful,” I mutter. The busts of four men are illuminated in front of us, singing along with a jaunty tune that’s surely going to drive me ‘round the bend if we end up stopped here for very long. “Eight _snakes,_ is it really going to break down _here?_ ”

Simon elbows me in the ribs. When I look his way, he’s sat there looking positively delighted, as if he’d been hoping this would happen. (I’m starting to wonder if he had something to do with this—maddeningly cunning dragon magic and all. Though to what end...)

“You’ve your wand, yeah?” One corner of his mouth quirks in the infuriatingly adorable way it sometimes does. “Know any _French idioms_ to get us going again?”

Ah. He’s being a shit.

“I’m not _casting_ in here—” I hiss.

“No one will hear—”

“ _No._ I mean, it’s one thing to magick _one_ vehicle. I’ve no idea what would happen if I tried **Hurry up** on a chain of...whatever these are—”

“Doom buggies.”

“—I don’t even know where the operating system is.”

“Hm. Guess we’re at the mercy of the Normals, then.”

“Well-spotted.”

Simon drums his fingers against our safety bar, looks from side to side. Then, “Wanna make out?”

**SIMON**

Baz has one eyebrow in the position. Of course.

I raise both of mine back. (I can't do just the one.) "C'mon. Wouldn't be the first time we've snogged in a haunted mansion. It's practically tradition."

He rolls his eyes, then lowers them, but I swear he's smiling, too. Just a bit. If you didn't know him, you might miss it.

Those busts are still warbling on about _grim grinning ghosts,_ which isn't exactly romantic. I move closer to him and knock his shoulder with mine. Then I close my eyes, and focus, and turn the sound down.

"Clever," Baz says.

I shrug. "Not as good as one of your silencing spells."

"The background noise really sets the ambience."

"Trying to get you in the mood." I'm close enough to bump his nose with mine. "It's a spooky serenade."

"What am I going to do with you?"

"Dunno. Kiss me, I hope. Considering you've already married me." I'm halfway-tempted to let my tail out to wrap around his waist, or coil down his leg. (I will, tonight.)

"You presume a lot," Baz whispers. We're so close, his lips are catching on mine as he speaks.

"Yeah, well. You like it," I whisper back.

And then I press my mouth to his.

**BAZ**

Those ghastly busts are still singing about a _swinging wake,_ but Simon’s turned their voices to echos, and none of that matters, anyway.

He’s all that matters. Him. _Us._ Always.

He takes my hand in his as he kisses me, turning my wedding band around my finger.

Then he cradles my face in both of his hands, pushing and pulling at my lips with his own, moving his chin against mine in that lovely way he does. He’s _warm,_ always, but the ring around his finger is cool against my cheek from the air around us.

_The ring around his finger…_

_Are you still mine?_ I remember asking myself far too often. But _now…_

His palms are going even warmer against my face, and his ring is, too.

He’s mine.

Mine to have. Mine to hold.

Mine to love.

**SIMON**

It's dark, and no one can see us, but that's not why I'm kissing him.

I mean, that's partly why I'm kissing him. But mostly I'm kissing him because I _can._ Because I want to. Because he's _mine._

The ring on his finger is cold against my skin when he takes me by the back of my neck. (I wonder if mine's cold against his skin, too.) I think about how fast my heart's beating just now, and how he can probably hear it…

**BAZ**

...over everything.

I open my mouth under his, and his tongue starts to warm mine.

_How did we get here? Two broken boys grown to two scarred men, rings around our fingers, promises kept and made…_

After everything.

I almost laugh, but I just smile against my husband's mouth instead.

My _husband._

Simon Snow.

Simon Grimm-Pitch.

My name after his, my heart nearly coming to a stop every time I hear it. Every time I _think_ it.

His hands on my face, just like the first time. That first, impossible time, fire catching even as the world burned around us.

Always fire catching. It never stopped.

**SIMON**

He's going warm where I've been touching him. Warm under my hands…

And where he’s touching me, too. The ring on his finger isn’t chilled anymore. (I’m not sure when exactly that happened.)

I’m tilting his jaw, and he’s letting me in. He tastes like Baz and churros and all those lovely French words that keep rolling off his tongue.

_Baz—_

The ride _jerks_ then, and our teeth knock together. Baz is jumping in his seat, and I’m laughing against his mouth. Well fierce vampire and all.

I touch my forehead to his. Then I nudge his head with mine.

And then I open my eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know how y'all liked this one! Some of you have probably already read it in the zine, but there's no kudos or comments there so I'd love to hear what you thought!
> 
> Some research went into it (I've been to Disney a lot but not in Paris!); you can [see some behind the scenes stuff from me here.](https://thehoneyedhufflepuff.tumblr.com/post/612235912595816448/promises-kept-made-researched)
> 
> And if you want to watch, here's [a ride-along video of Phantom Manor.](https://youtu.be/S5iIjVyKsg8) :D
> 
> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thehoneyedhufflepuff) I'm a disaster over there.


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